


Death in Rebellion

by Athenais_Penelope_Clemence



Series: Anne Boleyn AUs [3]
Category: 16th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, The Tudors (TV), Tudor History - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Death, Doomed Relationship, Drama, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Love, Mental Anguish, Romance, Tragedy, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 18:48:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4575738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athenais_Penelope_Clemence/pseuds/Athenais_Penelope_Clemence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU to S2E5, the episode "His Majesty's Pleasure". The executions of Thomas More and Bishop Fisher shock the common people and have outrageous consequences. Anne Boleyn and Henry have to deal with the rebellion against the religious reforms, and the great tragedy befalls the nation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death in Rebellion

**Author's Note:**

> It is an unusual and original AU. The executions of Thomas More and Bishop Fisher shocked Christendom, for nobody expected that Henry would be ready to such extreme measures to punish his loyal subjects for their refusal to sign the Oath. Actually, I am astonished that the Pilgrimage of Grace didn't start after these executions, earlier than in history. 
> 
> I am not a passionate Anne/Henry shipper in life because I don't like Henry's cruel personality. In my view, Anne Boleyn and Henry Tudor are a doomed match, so I can imagine them shipped in life only with a bittersweet end if Anne survives, like it happens in this AU. Alternatively, Anne and Henry can be shipped in death or in tragedyI cannot see Anne happy in her marriage to Henry in the long run.
> 
> This is the last Anne/Henry one-shot I write. I am very busy working on my novels, so I just don’t have time to write fanfiction anymore. No worries, “Glory of Death” will be finished. I also have another brilliant idea in my mind about the plotline for my “bloody” one-shot (I call it so), but so far I don’t have time to write it; maybe in the future. 
> 
> As the action takes place immediately after executions of More and Fisher, George Boleyn is not married to Jane Parker in this one-shot, and we don’t have Jane Seymour. 
> 
> Undoubtedly, I don't own any characters and the Tudors show. Any reviews are appreciated. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

**Death in Rebellion**

King Henry VIII of England sat at his desk in the study, looking outside, into the magnificent royal gardens, his hands clasping the parchment as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

Whitehall Palace stood out menacingly against the heavy sky. The winter day was cold and gloomy, and a dull light brooded over the crowns of bare trees and a small frozen lake. The sky seemed to be descending, with the sun going in behind some clouds and making the world only a little brighter because its rays were too bleak and too cold. Despite the daytime, the candles were still burning in the room because without them it would have been impossible to read or write.

Henry was deeply absorbed in his thoughts, watching the snow falling on the branches of the trees. He caught himself on the thought that it would have been much more pleasant if he had been outside, in the garden, where the gray winter day mirrored an endless, deep melancholy that took possession of his heart and soul. Henry turned his head and looked down, at the parchment – the death warrant of Thomas More and Bishop Fisher, which he had to sign today. He didn’t want the two rebellious men dead because he valued and respected them, but he also felt how useless it was to struggle against fate, for he obviously had to execute them after their refusal to sign the Oath of Supremacy.

It was easier for Henry to sign the death warrant of Bishop Fisher than that of Thomas More. More and Henry had known each other for so long, since the older man had been appointed a Privy Councilor years ago, which had been the beginning of their close and personal relationship. More had impressed Cardinal Wolsey, Henry’s chief minister, and he had been knighted and made under-treasurer of the Exchequer at the king’s order. Throughout many years, Thomas More had been acting as Henry’s personal secretary and adviser, delivering official speeches, greeting foreign envoys, drafting treaties and other public documents, and doing many others important things.

Henry had hoped for a long time that Thomas More would support the religious reforms in England. After Wolsey had fallen from favor, More had succeeded to the office of Lord Chancellor. At first, More had been fully devoted to Henry’s main objective – getting an annulment of his marriage to Catherine of Aragon. He had denounced Cardinal Wolsey in Parliament and had joined the opinion of the theologians at Oxford and Cambridge that Henry’s marriage to Catherine had been unlawful.

However, when Thomas More had realized that Henry would break with the Roman Catholic Church, his qualms had grown and he had asked the king to resign from the office of Chancellor. More hadn’t attended the coronation of Anne Boleyn as the Queen of England, but on paper More had acknowledged Anne’s queenship. More had continued to remain steadfast in supporting the supremacy of the pope, and his relationship with the king had been broken. Finally, Henry had signed More’s arrest warrant, and now he had to condemn the man to death.

Henry was staring at the death warrant without blinking for a long, long time. He couldn’t force himself to sign the parchment because a large part of his heart didn’t wish to kill Thomas More. It was always difficult to send to the block someone who had become almost your friend during the many years of loyal service. More had meant even more to Henry: he was his spiritual accountant who had always given him a good and sound political advice that tallied accurately with a conscience.

More was the king’s connection to the old happy days of his youth, which Henry still liked and at times longed for, reminiscing their marriage and sweet romance. Killing More would be tantamount to killing a breath of old sweet romance and a spirit of chivalry from the days when the high-spirited courtiers of the newly crowned King Henry VIII had been happy to have the dashing, easy-going young man on the throne instead of the avaricious, suspicious old man – King Henry VII. But the old days had been irrevocably gone, and now More had become an obstacle to the religious reforms in England and the acknowledgment of Anne Boleyn as the king’s wife and Elizabeth as his heir.

The king put a hand on his chest, pressing it to his heart that was thundering inside. His heart was telling him to sign the death warrant and be done with that, but the voice in the back of his head whispered to him that he would have to pay a high price for More’s death. Henry wrapped his arms around his chest, embracing himself as if he were trying to keep warmth close to his body which would freeze together with his blood after ordering Thomas More’s execution.

He swallowed painfully, aware of the sting of tears in his eyes, tears of unwillingness to execute the man whom he loved so much. He felt helpless that Thomas More, one of his friends and loyal subjects, refused to relent and be obedient to the will of his lord and sovereign. But there was no way back now: More had been charged with high treason for denying the validity of the Act of Supremacy and had been found guilty. After More’s arrest, Thomas Cromwell had visited him several times, urging him to take the Oath, which More had continued refusing.

If only More had agreed to sign the Oath of Supremacy, he would have allowed him to live the rest of his life with his family, not participating in the political life of England. But he realized that he couldn’t spare More’s life because he had to set a precedent and show the world what would happen to everyone who would defy the king’s supremacy in the relationship between the kingdom, his subjects, and the Church of England. He couldn’t begin to understand all the emotions seething through him – anger, fury, and a feeling of genuine regret at the thought that now Thomas More was doomed to die.

One of Henry’s pages entered and announced that Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, had come to him. Henry nodded in agreement, signaling that Cranmer could enter.

Thomas Cranmer bowed to the king. “Your Majesty,” he greeted.

Henry let out a tense smile. “Your Grace,” he replied politely, nodding his head slightly.

Cranmer smiled slightly. “Your Majesty, we have had a great success throughout the whole country in the swearing of allegiance to Your Majesty as Head of the Church, as well as in favor of your marriage to Queen Anne.” He paused, collecting his thoughts before proceeding to the news which troubled both the king and him. “But we cannot persuade either Bishop Fisher or Thomas More to swear the Oath.”

The king abruptly rose to his feet and started pacing the room as nervousness overcame him. “It is not the news for me, Master Cranmer,” he snapped irritably, turning away.

“They said something that may interest Your Majesty.”

Henry stopped near the window, staring into the window. “What do you mean?”

“They say that they may swear only to part of the Oath,” Cranmer answered, inwardly preparing for the king’s outburst of anger. “Sir Thomas and Bishop Fisher have already told us that he has no argument with the Act of Succession.”

The king turned to look at the Archbishop. Contrary to Cranmer’s expectations, he remained calm, his eyes were cold, but then his expression turned harsh, almost ruthless. He looked as though he had already resigned to the thought of More’s death. “There can be no compromise,” he said in a voice that was icy chill. “If we allow them of all men to swear to what they like and want, then they will set a precedent for others to follow. In this matter, Your Grace, it is all or nothing.”

In the next moment, the servant knocked at the door and notified that Thomas Cromwell had come for the private audience with the king. Henry nodded in confirmation that Cromwell was permitted to enter.

“Your Majesty,” Cromwell began, bowing his head. Like Cranmer, he had come to the king to talk about Thomas More, hoping that the king would finally get rid of the unrelenting man that was growing to be a thorn in their backside. Cromwell hoped to consolidate more power with More’s death.

“What news do you have, Master Cromwell?” Henry asked coolly.

“Your Majesty, I bring you a lot of news,” Cromwell reported. “In the first place, the pope has made Thomas More a cardinal. The second is Dame Alice, the wife of Sir Thomas has written to you.”

Cranmer watched Cromwell with displeasure, which he covered with a mask of neutrality. He had already begun to notice Cromwell’s lust for power, and he didn’t like that. “She also wrote to me.”

Henry looked annoyed. “What does she want?”

“As usual,” Cromwell responded. “She asks to remind Your Majesty that her husband has given you long and true service, and he does nothing out of malice, but only in the imperative of his conscience.”

Henry frowned, beginning to look very angry, his eyes narrowing and flaring up with a dangerous fire. “I know all about his conscience. He has been wearing it on his sleeve for years.” He clenched his fists, his expression furious. “When he resigned as Chancellor, he made me a promise that he would retire from the world and live privately, and attend his soul.” His face evolved into harshness, and his voice sounded metallic as he went on. “But this was not true. He continued to publish pamphlets about my matter and my conscience. He visited Catherine. He cajoled others to support her. In other words, he broke his promise. He must accept the consequences.”

The king came to the table and took the quill in his arms. Then he grabbed the parchment – Thomas More’s death warrant – and signed it without any hesitation. The news that More’s wife had written to him again, which was already the fifth letter, enraged Henry because he had never liked when he had been reminded of someone’s loyalty. Besides, he was furious that More’s wife tried to manipulate him so openly, almost pressuring him to make an exception and spare her husband. If before he was troubled by qualms of conscience, now everything changed – he didn’t pity More for a moment longer.

Cromwell barely concealed a satisfied smile on his face. “Is it the death warrant, Your Majesty?”

“Yes,” the king confirmed. “I signed Bishop Fisher’s death warrant yesterday, but I was still thinking about Sir Thomas.” He sighed heavily. “But we cannot wait forever because I know that he won’t change his mind. He made his bed and now he has to lie in it; my conscience is clear because I gave him enough chances to submit.” He came to Cromwell and handed him the parchment.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Cromwell agreed.

“Schedule the execution in two days,” Henry commanded. “That’s all for now.” Then he went to the door and stormed out of the study, slamming the door loudly behind him.

King Henry walked through the corridors of the palace, looking straight ahead and taking no notice of the courtiers who stopped and bowed to him. His mind was reeling, his thoughts resembled a chaotic mess, but there was only one name that rang in his ears – Anne Boleyn. If only Elizabeth had been born a boy, then everyone would have seen that Anne’s marriage to Henry had been true and valid in the eyes of God, unlike his accursed marriage to Catherine. In this case, they wouldn’t have needed to go to such extreme measures as making everyone swear his allegiance to the parliamentary Act of Succession making Elizabeth his only heir until the birth of his son.

The king was so fixed on the thought of Anne’s failure that he didn’t hear anything save the loud noise of laughter and dispute in the corridor. Then everything went still as the courtiers relapsed into silence at the sight of the king. At that moment, Henry was very angry at Anne for her failure to give him a son. Anne had made a laughingstock of him when she had broken her promise, and her failure created too many difficulties. It was Anne’s fault that he had to sign the death warrants of Thomas More and Bishop Fisher. But Anne was pregnant again, and he hoped that, this time, she would give him a son.

The king reached the long corridor leading to the presence chamber. There was a great deal of confusion and noise there, the noise of orders and counter-orders. Henry could see the queen’s ladies-in-waiting who crowded in the opposite part of the corridor. At first, he didn’t understand what was going on, but then his eyes widened in horror at the sight of Anne lying on the floor and clutching her stomach. Not waiting any longer, Henry ran as fast as his legs carried him, his heart pounding harder in fear.

Henry crouched at Anne’s level. “What happened?” he asked anxiously.

Anne looked at Henry, her face his face pale as death itself. She wanted to say something to her husband, but suddenly she felt a sharp pain her abdomen. “Argh!” she screamed, her face turning even paler. “No, no, no!” she cried out in despair. “My child,” she moaned the words quieter, her eyes full of fear, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.

“Get the physician,” the king ordered. He took Anne into his arms and almost ran to the queen’s suite.

As he carried her to her chambers, Anne was weeping, her face buried in his neck. “I lost the baby,” she whispered. “I lost the baby,” she repeated. “Why is God so cruel?”

Henry felt anger building in his chest that heaved with anger, frantic curses of Anne and their marriage boiling up in his throat. But he said nothing, knowing that he would only distress her more. “If you indeed lost the child, we shall make no public announcement of the fact,” he said as calmly as he could, though he was seething with anger. He didn’t say that many people had already seen Anne in the corridor, and gossip would soon start circulating about her miscarriage.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she whispered with genuine gratitude. She dragged a deep breath, trying to regain her composure, but all her attempts were futile.

The king opened the door to the queen’s chamber with his leg, and it flung widely open. Then he carried the queen to the large wooden bed and gently placed her there. In the next moment, two of Anne’s most loyal ladies-in-waiting, Nan Saville, and Madge Shelton, entered the bedchamber, their faces ghostly pale. Doctor Linacre trailed behind them, carrying his medical bed with instruments and medicines. At the sight of the physician, Henry cast a brief glance at Anne who writhed in pain on the bed; then he walked towards the exit and stormed out of the chamber.

In the corridor, Henry stumbled into Thomas Boleyn, the Earl of Wiltshire, and George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford. They bowed to the king who quickly dismissed them from formalities with a wave of his hand. Thomas Boleyn was shaking with anger that Anne had most likely lost the baby; he had already heard about that from the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. There was only one thought in Thomas’s head – Anne had failed again and the king could set her aside. George Boleyn looked worried about his sister and for the child, though he feared that Anne would fall out of the king’s grace and the Boleyns would lose their influence. Both Boleyn men were worried about the possible loss of power, but for different reasons.

Thomas Boleyn looked at the king. “What happened to my daughter, Your Majesty?”

Henry released an angry, whizzing breath. “It seems that Anne has suffered a miscarriage,” he said slowly; he began to believe that he would probably never have a healthy son by Anne.

“Your Majesty, are you sure that it was a miscarriage?” George asked quietly.

Henry shook his head in uncertainty. “I don’t know for certain, but there was much blood on the floor and her gown when I carried her to her rooms.”

“Maybe the baby will survive,” George said, hoping for the best and trying to support the moral. “Let’s wait until Doctor Linacre tells us how Anne is feeling.”

Henry measured George with a skeptical look. “Empty hopes, George,” he said between clenched teeth. “Catherine had many miscarriages, and I know how it looks like when a woman is losing a child.”

“Anne should have been more careful,” Thomas Boleyn’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

Henry was quiet for a long moment, looking at Thomas, his expression neutral. “Do you care for your daughter at least a little bit?” he asked, unexpectedly for himself.

The Earl of Wilshire lowered his head, as if in shame. “Your Majesty, please forgive me my boldness. I was only worried about your son,” he said with feigned sincerity.

Henry laughed. “You haven’t convinced me, Lord Wiltshire.” He made a step towards Thomas, whose eyes were still downcast. “I am not a fool, and I know how much you have always wanted power and wealth. Isn’t that the reason why you pushed Anne to set herself on my path?”

Thomas Boleyn was trembling in fear. “Your Majesty, I–”

The king cut him off sharply. “Look at me when I talk to you, Lord Wiltshire,” he hissed.

The old Boleyn lifted his eyes at his sovereign. “I am sorry if I displeased you.”

“I am sorry too,” George echoed. His heart was gripped with fear because never before had the king spoke to anyone of Anne’s relatives in such harsh and brusque tones.

Henry enjoyed the moment of their humiliation because he wanted them to suffer for Anne’s failure. “I understand everything. I was very indulgent towards Anne and all of her relatives.” He looked between George and Thomas. “But if Anne failed me again, I promise that many things will change.”

“As… Your Majesty… wishes,” Wiltshire stammered. 

“Exactly; as I wish,” Henry retorted. He turned his gaze away, demonstrating his displeasure with the situation. He ordered one of Anne’s ladies to inform him about Anne’s health as soon as Linacre would come out of the queen’s suite. Then he regally walked away, heading to his chambers.

When Henry’s figure disappeared, George glanced away, his hands nervously clutching the collar of his doublet. “I hope so much that Anne and the baby will survive, but I care more about Anne’s health and her happiness.” He feared the king’s displeasure and the threat of changes in their lives, but he no longer wanted to play his father’s game in their perpetual quest for power. 

“Are you mad, George? What happened to you?” Thomas Boleyn’s face contorted in anger. He grabbed the collar of George’s doublet and shook the man violently. “The king has just threatened us! We can lose everything because of Anne’s failure to give the king a son!”

George felt a wave of anger shoot through; he took a step aside from his father. “Father, you care only about yourself and power,” he accused the other man bluntly, the words spoken between set teeth. “You have forgotten that Anne is will suffer much more than you or me if she lost the baby. Do you care about her happiness at least a little?”

“It is only her fault! She killed the baby!” Thomas Boleyn fired.

“I should go,” George snapped. “The air is disgusting. It smells like the rotting human flesh here.” Then he turned around, intending to find Mark Smeaton and spend a good time in his company.

Soon the crowd of the courtiers near the queen’s suite was very large. The people were whispering and hustling till the early morning, waiting for the news from the queen’s suite. Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, stood near Thomas Boleyn, silent and somber; he came as soon as his spies informed him about the unfortunate events with the queen. Thomas Cromwell and other political supporters of Anne Boleyn waited for the news with bated breath, hoping for a miracle. Some of the people, who were secret supporters of Queen Catherine, felt delighted, hoping that the Boleyn Whore would fail again.

But all those, who reveled in the thought of her unhappiness, were doomed to disappointment. As Doctor Linacre emerged from the queen’s chamber, he made an announcement that the queen hadn’t miscarried by miracle and that she had been put on bed rest until the birth of her child. The Boleyn faction wore triumphant smiles on their faces, while Catherine’s supporters were silent and somber. Thomas Boleyn went to the king to notify him that Anne hadn’t lost the child today, hoping to elevate the king’s spirits and earn some more royal favor.

King Henry almost ran to the king’s chambers, wishing to see Anne, his heart hammering harder and harder, this time in delight that his son was alive. He felt his heart thumping loud in his ears as he paused at the doorway and stared at the bed where Anne lay. He couldn’t believe that the woman covered with silk white sheets was his Anne. Anne had never looked more vulnerable and paler than she did at that moment. Moving quickly and with a grace of a panther, Henry approached the bed and landed on the edge; then he shifted his body closer to Anne, taking her into his arms.

“Henry,” Anne whispered, smiling at him. “Our son is alive.”

Henry smiled back at her. “I know, sweetheart.”

She looked at Henry, her eyes brimming with tears. “Do you still have a passion for me?”

Henry planted a tender kiss on her forehead. “I do, sweetheart. I love you.” He kissed her temple. “Don't weep. Don't weep, my own darling. It is alright. Everything is going to be alright.”

His words of consolation sounded like a gloomy prophecy. “Henry, I am afraid.” The tears gathered more thickly in her eyes, and she suddenly imagined she saw the form of a man lying on the pavement, apparently dead, dressed in torn clothes and with a hooded head.

Henry started stroking her hair. “What do you fear, my love?”

She swallowed painfully. “I don’t know, but my heart is seized with fear.”

He kissed her on the nape of her head. “Don’t fear anything, Anne. I am the king and I can protect you from everyone,” he assured her, stroking her hair. “I will send everyone who can threaten Elizabeth and you to the block. Everyone who doesn’t want to acknowledge you as the Queen of England and me as Head of Church will pay with their lives for treason; More and Fisher will die tomorrow.”

Anne didn’t answer at once. She knew that Henry had absolute power after he had been proclaimed the Supreme Head of the Church of England, and he could easily deal with all her enemies, but she still didn’t feel that everything would be fine, even though her baby didn’t die. On the contrary, she felt that something bad and dangerous would happen soon. There was a feeling of bad foreboding in her heart, which chilled her to the bone. Generous and fresh tears filled her deep, expressive, blue eyes, and she suddenly felt herself drowning in the ocean of despair, and there was a strange nagging pain of loss in her heart – the pain of all the future losses she would have to incur as a price of her queenship.

§§§

The bleak rays of the winter sun illuminated Tower Green as Bishop John Fisher was led by the guards to the scaffold. Henry had sentenced Fisher to being hanged, drawn, and quartered, but Cromwell told him that the old man was so frail and thin that he wouldn’t survive the journey on a hurdle to Tyburn, so his sentence was changed to that of beheading. In the morning, when he awoke, Fisher told his jailer that _‘it was his wedding day because he would see God soon’._

Thomas Boleyn, the Earl of Wiltshire, and Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, stood next to the scaffold. Thomas Boleyn was smiling widely, reveling in the thought of triumph over the pitiful old churchman who had opposed so much to Anne Boleyn’s marriage to Henry. In contrast to Anne’s father, Thomas Howard wasn’t in elevated spirits because he didn’t like the idea of having staunch Catholics executed. George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, also was in dark moods, feeling ashamed that he and his father had tried to kill Fisher several years ago.

Thomas Boleyn laughed when Bishop Fisher stumbled and fell to his knees because he was too weak to walk. The crowd of townspeople that had gathered to watch execution was shocked; lamentations and whispers filled the air. The guard forced Fisher to get to his feet, and then Charles Brandon commanded to bring a chair for him. As a result, the prisoner was carried in a chair to the scaffold. During all this time, Fisher was holding _New Testament_ in his arms and praying for the salvation of his immortal soul. Finally, the prisoner climbed down the chair and walked to the scaffold, singing _the Te Deum_ , and the people crossed themselves, giving him compassionate looks.

Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, also stood nearby, shaking in rage that Henry had condemned More and Fisher to death because of Anne Boleyn, whom he hated with a murderous hatred for all the troubles she had already caused in England. Thomas Cromwell, who was becoming more and more powerful with every year and whose influence on Queen Anne and the king was a catalyst for Reformation, looked calm, his expression neutral, his eyes blank, but a motion of satisfaction enlivened his face for a brief moment when Bishop Fisher climbed up the scaffold.

Bishop Fisher took off his gown to prepare for death, and stood on his knees, praying aloud. The assembled crowd gasped at the sight of his emaciated body, the people began to whisper, shaking their heads in disbelief that the king had sent him to death. But nobody cared what the people thought, and Fisher’s head was off at the first blow. Someone in the crowd said that it was impossible so much blood could come out of such a skeletal figure. The executioner took Fisher’s head and thrust it upon a pike, showing it to the crowd. Then Fisher’s body was displayed at the site of execution.

Sir Thomas More was next in turn for execution. When More had left the jurisdiction of the Tower, he was escorted to the steps of the scaffold by five guards, as if he were one of the most dangerous prisoners who could escape. More was looking straight ahead and even not trying to find his family in the crowd because he knew that his wife and children hadn’t been given permission to witness the execution. More looked as if he were going to accept a new appointment instead of losing his life for high treason, signifying his final obeisance and obedience to the law and all those forces which had shaped and determined his life.

Thomas More smiled at Charles Brandon who bowed to him in respect, his face as if telling everyone that he didn’t need their support but that he was grateful. As More’s eyes met with the eyes of Thomas Boleyn and George Boleyn, More smiled meekly at them. Thomas Boleyn scowled at the prisoner and turned away; George Boleyn sighed heavily and then bowed his head in respect, which made More’s face change in surprise. Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, hit George on his forearm and whispered something into his ear, but the young Boleyn ignored the reprimand; Charles Brandon heard the exchange, looking stunned but smiling slightly.

As Bishop Fisher had been executed before and a gush of blood had poured down the scaffold, the steps were not firm, and one of the guards steadied Thomas More. Then More stood on before the crowd, preparing to make his final speech. “When I come down again,” he began his speech, which he decided not to make long, “let me shift for myself as well as I can. I came here to die, and I submit myself to the king’s will. You all bear witness that I will suffer death in and for the faith of the Holy Catholic Church. I humbly ask you to pray for me in this world, and I would pray for you elsewhere. Pray for the king and ask God to give him a good counsel.” He paused, catching his breath. “I die the king’s good servant but God’s first,” he finished his speech.

More’s words had an overwhelming effect on the crowd. The speech was spoken in such a loud and steady voice that it floated unhindered into the open air and spread wide. The people whispered and lamented, pitying Thomas More and not wishing him dead. Suddenly, an unexpected series of unwelcome noise began to be heard on Tower Green as the words left the people’s mouths and flew against the sky – the words of harsh protest against More’s execution.

“The king cannot execute Sir Thomas! This execution is against God!” a young, courageous man in the crowd screamed. “He cannot execute those who believe in the only true God!”

“Thomas More doesn’t deserve to die!” an old Englishman, obviously a priest, cried out.

“You cannot execute him! It is a murder!” someone else voiced his opinion.

Thomas Cromwell snapped his fingers, and a dozen of guards emerged from the Tower and advanced in the direction of the crowd. The people began to move and those who spoke very freely tried to escape. For some time, the guards were dealing with the crowd, their frightening presence sobering the people. Then there was a reverent silence, and each pair of eyes was attached to the block.

Thomas More was paler now. His eyes were more meditative, and his expression was very sad, but he was grateful to the people for their support. He had already passed through an ordeal of struggling for his life and had accepted his death, and now he wanted only to die with honor. He knelt before the block and recited the words of the psalm: “Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving kindness”.

Then Thomas More leaped to his feet, and the executioner now knelt to ask him for forgiveness. More kissed the executioner, unexpectedly to everyone. The prisoner rejected the executioner’s offer to have his eyes bind, and then he lay down with his neck upon the block, his arms stretched out before him. The axe swung in the air, beheading him with one powerful stroke.

The executioner picked up More’s head and displayed it to the crowds. “Behold the head of a traitor!’ he shouted. “Behold the head of a traitor!”

The Duke of Norfolk approached the Constable of the Tower and ordered to take the corpse to the Church of St Peter ad Vincula within the Tower, permitting the family members to attend a burial. He also gave the king’s instructions that More’s head was to be boiled, then impaled upon a pole and raised above London Bridge, so everyone could see what the king would do to those who disobeyed him.

The crowd looked shocked, and everyone was in mourning for Bishop Fisher and Thomas More who ended their lives as martyrs for Catholic Church who refused to abandon Catholicism and died for their faith. Many people knelt and began to pray for the souls of two men, worshipping them in death more than in life.

“It is good that the king executed these traitors,” Thomas Boleyn said with a satisfied smile. “They deserved death a while ago. The king was too patient with them.”

“The people are in an exceptionally bad mood,” Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, remarked.

Looking at the praying people and remembering their shouts of protests, George Boleyn could only hope that there would be no unfortunate surprises later. “All these people are trembling in fear after we sent guards to deal with the crowd, but they are still very dangerous for the king.”

Norfolk nodded. “I agree with you, nephew.”

The Earl of Wilshire spluttered unintelligibly, shaking his head in disbelief that his kinsmen could speak about such things. “What are you talking about?” he snapped wrathfully. “They are traitors to the king and to England. These people know that the king’s word is the law, and we have nothing to fear.”

Thomas Cromwell emerged next to Thomas Boleyn. “I agree with Lord Rochford too,” he intervened. “We have to be very careful right now because the people are shocked with these executions.” He trailed off, running his eyes over his companions. “Many people were against the religious reforms before, but now there will be more those who oppose the Reformation and hate reformers.”

Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, approached the group of his enemies. “You have seen the effect of the executions on the townsfolk,” he interjected, shaking his head and grinning wickedly. “Do you think the people will always be tolerant of what is done in the name of the king?”

“Your Grace, it is the king’s law that treason is punishable by death,” Thomas Boleyn asserted; then his face splashed into a smile. “Do we need to remind you of certain laws?” His smile widened. “Perhaps, your tutors didn’t teach you well before you became the courtier and the king’s servant.”

Suffolk shot a contemptuous look at the old Boleyn, whom he hated and despised for so long. “I said nothing against the king’s law. I would have always supported the king in all his decisions because I know my place and because I am the king’s loyal servant.” He swallowed hard, feeling a lump forming in his throat. “I only warned you about the consequences.” Then he bowed, following the elementary rules of etiquette, and walked away from the scaffold.

“I meant the same. We have to be very careful,” George Boleyn agreed. Then he bowed and followed Suffolk, almost mechanically, intending to discuss the situation with the Duke.

Norfolk nodded. “Excessively careful,” he stressed.

Cromwell looked thoughtful. “I will speak with the king about the matter.”

The darkness slowly descended upon the city of London, mirroring the mood of the people during the execution. The streets were almost deserted, and only a few people were outside of their homes, each of them in a mourning mood. Despite the late afternoon, there was the tawny gold of a great bank of clouds and the wreath-like a disk of the bleak sun in the otherwise dark sky, and the people said that it was the sign of the eternal life of Fisher and More in Heaven.

Inside some of the churches, the mass was heard by those who strictly disapproved of the executions. The murders of More and Fisher shocked the city of London, and it was clear that the whole of Christendom would be shocked once the news would reach Rome and foreign ambassadors would send letters to their masters. Nobody knew what the consequences would be like, but there was tension in the air, as though the air had been charged with negativity, perhaps even with hatred, which threatened to swallow the whole city in a cloud of rebellious and thick dust.

During the next several days, the city was almost empty as the people continued mourning the loss of Thomas More and Bishop Fisher. In contrast to the gloomy mood in the streets, the environment at the court was light and bright. King Henry was in low spirits only on the day of execution, but then his spirits improved dramatically as he didn’t have a reason to be sad – Anne didn’t lose her child and was only confined to bed. Henry ordered to organize grand festivities and even a jousting tournament in the honor of Queen Anne Boleyn, whose name he glorified in the presence of the whole court, to the great joy of the Boleyns and the Howards and to the utter grief of Catherine’s supporters.

King Henry once spent the whole morning in the presence chamber with the royal jeweler, choosing a special gift for his Queen Anne. Henry had made Anne many gifts during the long period of their courtship, and she had an impressive collection of jewelry, but they were less exquisite and less expensive than the new gifts for her. Henry chose several magnificent diamond, sapphire, emerald, and pearl necklaces, as well as matching bracelets and pairs of earrings. Henry also ordered countless yards of fabric for Anne’s gowns, thinking that she would wear them after the birth of their son; among these fabrics, there was golden brocade edged with silver thread, purple and blue silk embroidered with gold braid, lavender silk edged in silver, and extravagant black velvet embroiled with gold.

The servant entered and informed the king about the arrival of Thomas Cromwell. Henry finished choosing necklaces and wanted to go to Anne’s suite, not wishing to talk to his minister for long. When Cromwell entered and bowed to the king, he could hear Henry humming something under his breath; he signed, preparing to ruin Henry’s excellent mood with the news.

“Your Majesty, I bring grave news,” Thomas Cromwell began.

Henry laughed at Cromwell’s announcement, even not looking at him. He was holding a majestic jewelry set, consisting of a stunning necklace with eight huge sapphires and ten diamonds. “Master Cromwell, be careful because I don’t want anyone to spoil my mood,” he warned.

Cromwell sighed heavily. He was in no mood for casual conversation, wishing to tell the king what had happened in the north of England. “There is an uprising in York,” he informed. “The rebellion started in York, but it quickly gained support in Horncastle, Market Rasen, Caistor, and other nearby towns.” He sighed again. “The situation is very dangerous. The civil war may begin.”

Henry felt as though he had been struck by the lighting. The necklace dropped from his arms, and he stared down at his feet, his mind struggling to process the information Cromwell had shared with him. He turned his eyes and stared into the emptiness, his expression evolving into a cameo of disbelief. He felt a shiver running down his spine, and rhythmic shocks shook his body. He waved his hand, dismissing the frightened jeweler who bowed and hurried to leave the presence chamber.

“Are you sure that there is a rebellion?” Henry asked in a low, shaky voice.

Cromwell nodded. “Yes, I am, Your Majesty.”

The king was quiet for a moment; then he took a vase from the table and threw it into the wall. “How dare they rebel against their King? How dare they threaten the security of their King and their Queen?” he bellowed. “What do they want to achieve?”Cromwell inwardly shuddered. He feared to speak, but he had to tell the king everything he knew. “Your Majesty, the people are protesting against the religious reforms and against the break from the Roman Catholic Church,” he said.

Henry shut his eyes for a moment. “Did they say anything about More and Fisher?” Then he opened his eyes, Cromwell could see the dangerous light there, and he felt his knees trembling.

“Yes, they did,” Cromwell confirmed, his face devoid of all emotions, though inside he was shuddering in fear. “They are angry that Your Majesty ordered executions of More and Fisher.” 

In the next moment, the Duke of Suffolk entered, bowing to the king. “I fear Master Cromwell won’t tell Your Majesty everything,” he said without preamble.

“Speak, Your Grace,” the king urged.

Charles Brandon swept his eyes over Cromwell from top to toe, his gaze cold and contemptuous; then his gaze slid to the king. “Master Cromwell is being blamed for everything, and the rebels are demanding his head. They say that Your Majesty couldn’t order the executions of Thomas More and Bishop Fisher because you are merciful and benevolent King; they consider Cromwell is the real evil in England.”

Henry’s eyes turned cold and piercing. “Your Grace, I am sending you and George Boleyn to the royal army, which you both will lead against the rebels in the north of my kingdom,” he ordered in a voice that sounded as hard as steel. “If we need to send the second army to destroy the rebels, then we will do that.” He narrowed his eyes. “You have our permission to destroy all their goods and make a fearful example of them to all of our other subjects.”

Brandon didn’t like what he heard, and he wasn’t sure that it was a right course of action. “Your Majesty, if I may ask, what do you think about negotiations with them? Should we at least try?”

“Promise them a full royal pardon if they disperse freely,” the king commanded.

“Yes, Majesty,” Charles obeyed.

Cromwell coughed nervously. “Is Your Majesty sure that negotiations will help?”

Brandon gave Cromwell a disdainful look. “And what other options, Mister Secretary, do we have when we are not prepared to crush the rebellion right now? Maybe you will give us some of your money the king pays you for your job to finance an army?” he asked with a touch of dark irony.

“Enough,” Henry barked. He took another vase at the desk and threw it into the wall, making Cromwell quickly step backwards. “It is your entire fault, Master Cromwell! This is only your fault!” His screams were so loud that glasses in the windows were trembling from his booming voice.

“I am sorry if I displeased Your Majesty,” Cromwell said.

Henry stared at his secretary with a hard, piercing gaze. “I promise the utter destruction of the rebels, as well as the destruction of their wives and their children,” he took an oath. He narrowed his eyes at Cromwell. “I will destroy them all and then I will destroy you, Cromwell.”

“Your Majesty…” Cromwell stammered.

“Pray that the royal army crushes with the rebellion soon,” the king said. Then he took the necklaces and went out of the chamber, intending to spend a quiet evening with Anne and give her the gifts.

“His Majesty is right, Master Cromwell: you should pray for the suppression of the rebellion,” Brandon said with angry hauteur, regarding the other man. “We don’t even have enough soldiers in the army and have to recruit more men, which takes much time. We don’t have enough weapons in stock either.” He released a heavy sigh. “I hope that your execution will be enough to satisfy the rebels’ demands.” Not bowing to Cromwell, he stormed out of the room, heading to George Boleyn’s chamber to discuss their departure from London to the north on the king’s new errand.

Thomas Cromwell stood rooted to the spot, staring into the emptiness. If the king had been in the presence chamber right now, he would have sunk to his knees and begged for mercy because he feared for his life. He would ask the king for pardon on the very next occasion of their meeting if he needed that to save his life. But he feared that his apology would increase the king’s offense, which Henry would view as additional evidence of his guilt. There was only one thing left to Cromwell – he had to do everything to crush the uprising before the rebels became unstoppable.

When Henry appeared in the queen’s bedchamber, he found Anne involved in a lively conversation with her father, her brother, and her Uncle. Although the queen was bedridden, she wasn’t prohibited from having visitors, and she enjoyed the company of other people. As soon as Henry entered, they bowed to him and signaled that they had to leave the chamber. Henry sighed at the sight of Anne’s disquieting and dismal expression, understanding that they had already told her about the rebellion.

Henry smiled at Anne. “Anne, you look wonderful today,” he said as he seated himself on the edge of the bed. “Your beauty is unequaled, sweetheart.”

Anne laughed. “Henry, I am bedridden! I am dressed in my nightgown and night robe, not in one of my dresses! I am pale as death itself!” she said in a single breath. “You are flattering me.”

He shook his head in disagreement. “My own sweetheart, I am just stating the truth.” He leaned over and kissed her on her forehead. “To me you are always gorgeous!”

“Thank you, my love,” Anne replied with a smile. She was pleased that Henry was kind and attentive to her, like it had always been in the period of their courtship. After she had given birth to Elizabeth, Henry had been disappointed in her and his eye had begun to stray. In the past months, he had been cold towards her and had taken Lady Eleanor Luke as his mistress. But now her husband was the same man she had fallen in love with many years ago – he was her beloved, gentle, and caring Henry.

Henry gave Anne the necklaces, watching in awe as she touched them with her long, slender fingers. Anne was as happy to receive his gifts as a child is always happy when he is given a new toy. The unexpected expression of Henry’s love for her reminded Anne of the man she had once not only loved but idolized. But Henry could see that anxiety was gnawing at Anne in spite of her happiness – her fear of the rebellion. Yet, he didn’t know that Anne’s heart constricted in mortal dread because she instinctively felt that the rebellion would have grave consequences for them.

Anne smiled cordially at Henry, taking his hand in hers. “I love you so much, Henry,” she said in a trembling voice, which was quite unlike her usual self-confidence. “I promise that if we survive and nothing bad happens, I won’t fail you anymore – I will give you and England a healthy son.” Fresh tears came to her eyes. “I promise that I will be a good wife and a dignified Queen.”

Henry’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of tears in her eyes. “Sweetheart, I love you too.” He kissed her shortly in her lips. “You don’t need to worry. You have to stay calm for our son.” He embraced her and she almost threw herself into a shelter of his arms. “I am the King of England, and you don’t need to fear these traitors who dared rebel against God and against their King.”

Anne didn’t share Henry’s calmness. “But we have every reason to believe that it is very dangerous!” she exclaimed, her expression evolving into the one of deep worry. “My Uncle told me that they are marching from York to London, demanding Cromwell’s head and saying that you, Henry, fail to realize your mistakes and the dangers to your soul. They claim that you continue encouraging Cromwell to vandalize and defile the houses of God and steal their treasures, all for his own use and pleasure.”

“Rest assured that we will deal with them,” Henry responded with unreal carelessness. “We will teach them a lesson that they will never do the same again.” He sighed. “And if I need to give them Cromwell’s head, I will satisfy their request, but you have my word that it won’t stop Reformation in England.”

Anne’s lips twitched, becoming dry with fear of some possible terrible consequences. “What are you going to do to all these people, Henry? Are you going to kill them?”

Henry craved to destroy them before he came to Anne, but now he felt a strangely distressing qualm from that thought. But then cold determination returned to his heart, and he decided that the course of action he had already set in his head was a right thing. “I will kill them if I have to do that to protect you, Elizabeth, and our new child,” he replied resolutely as he placed a hand on her flat stomach.

Anne’s face changed into horror. “Catherine and Mary,” she whispered. “They will be the death of us!”

He arched a brow. “Why?”

“They hate me and wish me dead!” Anne murmured, waving her hands spasmodically. “The rebels will want to overthrow you and place Mary on the throne if you don’t stop the reforms!”

“Calm down, Anne,” the king said, a little irritated. “I already ordered to place Catherine under a heavy guard in Kimbolton Castle. I also sent more loyal men to Hatfield to guard Elizabeth’s residence for her security.  I also ordered to place Mary under home arrest, so she cannot run away and join the rebels.”

Anne let out a tremulous smile, but her smile was swiftly changed by the vulnerable and terrified expression. “I am still concerned about the outcome of this uprising,” she whispered.

Henry’s arms encircled Anne’s back, and he pressed her to him. “Don’t worry, sweetheart.” He kissed her forehead. “Trust me, Anne. Everything is under control.”

Anne felt as if she were at home in his arms that took away her pain and anguish. Yet, the dread that had seized her entire heart was well concealed from the world under a manner of simple worry which she let Henry see on her face and hear in her voice. The horrible depths of her strong, desperate emotions were too deep to ignore them and simply persuade herself that everything would be alright. Henry’s presence was a distraction for her, but she still felt extremely insecure, and the brutal world morphed into the most inauspicious premonition she had ever experienced.

§§§

Several weeks passed since the executions of Thomas More and Bishop Fisher, but the revolt in the north of England wasn’t suppressed yet, much to the grief of the king and his counselors. It was the worst revolt against the reign of Henry VIII, which originally began at Louth in Lincolnshire and lasted a fortnight; Yorkshire was the next city to rebel. The rebels were led by Robert Aske, an English lawyer who fiercely objected to the Protestant Reformation in England, particularly the Dissolution of the Monasteries. Robert Constable, a member of the English gentry, and Thomas Darcy, Baron Darcy, also were driving forces behind the uprising; they both were King Henry’s loyal servants before.

The rebellion was a direct consequence of the ongoing religious reforms in England, which confused and enraged many staunch Catholics across the country. While the presence of a royal commission in various cities, towns, and villages caused a mere spark in general dissatisfaction, the local clergy added fuel to the fire, inflaming the hearts of Catholics with hatred for reforms and, thus, pushing them to take an action against the king. With the charismatic and outspoken Robert Aske as a leader, the rebellion spread quickly, and an army of around thirty thousand men gathered in the north.

The rebellion became known as the Pilgrimage of Grace. It was Robert Aske who used the term ‘the Pilgrimage of Grace’ to describe their actions as pilgrimage had a holy meaning, which Aske wanted everyone to associate with the rebellion. Aske and his accomplices wanted King Henry to stop his attacks on the Church and the monasteries, demanding to destroy the newly founded Church of England and reconcile with the Roman Catholic Church. The majority of the rebels were commoners, but some local nobles also participated in the movement.

After the first round of negotiations with the rebels failed, the Duke of Suffolk and Viscount Rochford returned to London, saying that the rebels were not going to believe the king’s promises. The return of Charles Brandon and George Boleyn enraged the king, looking at them with wild and furious hatred in his eyes as they stood before him in the presence chamber. Inflamed with anger and disgust at the idea of such treachery, Henry shouted and crushed everything in the chamber, wishing to spill the blood of the rebels and destroy everyone who turned against him.

As King Henry calmed down, his advisors explained to him that the royal troops were hopelessly outnumbered and lacked equipment and even desire to fight with their own countrymen. Besides, the rebel forces were not amateurs in a military deal as many of them had gotten much experience on the battlefield, fighting with the Scots almost continuously during Henry's reign. It seemed that the only way out of the situation was to turn to diplomacy again, trying to persuade the rebels to disperse and put down their weapons while preparing for a sudden attack for their further destruction.

Suffolk and Rochford returned to the north for negotiations, which happened half way to London – in Cambridge. But the king’s representatives again failed because the rebels demanded actions from the King of England. Robert Aske openly declared that they wouldn’t disperse only if they were promised to be pardoned; he also added that he personally didn’t believe the king’s word. At the same time, all the leaders of the rebellion proclaimed that they were not seeking to overthrow King Henry but wanted to get the king out of the influence of his advisers who had corrupted and poisoned their sovereign against the English people. The people also openly demanded the deposition of Queen Anne Boleyn and the restoration of Queen Catherine and Princess Mary to their rightful places.

Shocked and frightened, Charles and George left, not knowing what to tell the king. The situation was becoming critical, the consequences of the rebellion – unpredictable. The king’s loyal men needed more time to prepare and strengthen the English army and decide what course of actions to take. The Duke of Norfolk was gathering the forces and supplies, but it wasn’t clear when the army would be ready to fight. The king’s men thought to launch an attack against the rebels somewhere near London in the next days, but they needed to have a command from the king.

Meanwhile, the King of England waited for his loyal supporters in London, trying to coordinate the preparation of the royal army for the battle. A part of Henry’s heart wanted nothing more than to do everything possible and impossible to avoid bloodshed on a massive scale, like it had happened during the Wars of the Roses when thousands of people had been killed in the bloody struggle for power between the House of Lancaster and the House of York. But a larger part of Henry’s heart craved to spill the treacherous blood of traitors because they had offended their King in the eyes of Christendom and Henry wasn’t a man who could forget and forgive such humiliation.

Henry remembered very well that his father had told him once that his task would be to avoid dynastic wars for succession and civil wars in England. When his father had died, England had enjoyed twenty-four years of peace, and no uprisings had taken place in the kingdom since Henry’s ascendance to the throne. Henry’s divorce from Catherine had created the background for the people’s displeasure, but his subjects hadn’t rebelled against him even in spite of Catherine’s deposition. As the religious reforms had begun, many people hadn’t expressed their anger openly and had signed the Oath, but after the executions of More and Fisher they had lost their patience.

Those days were gloomy for Henry, and he lived in the world of dark anticipation, with fear of the loss of his kingdom, his throne, and his wife. He could pace the chamber for hours, his expression sullen and focused as his mind created plans of stopping and destroying the rebels. If he was disturbed, his spurts of temper were awful and his anger fell upon all that was close to him, whatever it was beautiful and joyous or ugly and sad. Henry wasn’t going to surrender and would continue fighting even against his own people, for he had always triumphed and he would do that again, he mused.

The secret longing for the old days perished, killed by the power of dark forces taking over England and threatening to depose the king. Henry started hating Catherine of Aragon, considering her a threat to him and cursing himself for marrying her so many years ago; his first wife became the object of all his anger and resentment, his most vicious enemy, a monster of malice and lies. If only Catherine had admitted that their marriage had never been valid, the situation would have been very different now, Henry told himself. But despite his resolution to hate Catherine blaming her for everything happening in England, he was aggrieved that their relationship ended with the wild enmity.

Henry spent evenings with Anne as she was the only person who could take away his bad fears. He could seat on the edge of the bed for hours, his hand resting on Anne’s stomach as he tried to feel the movement of his beloved baby boy. Anne laughed at her husband, saying that it was too early for the child to quicken in her womb. Henry’s everyday presence was a great distraction for Anne, who was swiftly growing weary of her premature confinement, wishing to get out of the bed but wasn’t allowed to. But as much as she was trying to mask her nervousness and emotional tumult, she always failed, and Henry could see the naked fear in the depths of her deep blue eyes.

This evening, Henry again came to Anne’s suite, planning to spend the whole evening with his wife. The majority of ladies of the queen’s household were all gathered in the queen’s bedchamber, each of them stitching at a tiny garment for the baby while Anne herself sat in the bed, covered with a blanket up to her waist and holding her embroidery in her arms but staring into the emptiness. This time, Henry could see Anne’s masked fear in her vacant gaze and her absent expression, revealing her internal struggle to keep composure despite their potentially terrible future.

“Anne,” Henry said the name of the woman whom he loved so much.

Lady Nan Saville leaped to her feet and curtsied deeply to the king; then all other ladies stood up and dropped curtsies too. “Your Majesty,” they greeted in a chorus.

“Leave us,” the king requested, waving a dismissive hand.

Anne smiled at her husband, but her face was pale. “Henry,” she said. She put her embroidery on the bed next to her and held out a slim hand, inviting him to come to her. “I was waiting for you.”

Henry approached the bed and seated himself comfortably there. He took her hand in his and bent his head low, kissing her hand. He kissed her palm, and then his lips touched the back of her hand, kissing her tender, alabaster skin slowly and achingly, again and again until he heard Anne make a sound – a tiny breath of sensual pleasure. He continued kissing her hand, covering her skin with a trail of hot kisses while she was gasping and moaning quietly in pleasure.

He drew away slightly, still holding her hand in his. “How are you and our son are doing, sweetheart?” he whispered gently. “I trust you were behaving well and didn’t try to leave your bed.”

Anne frowned, displeased. “I am already sick of staying in a bed,” she complained. “I cannot always be here! I want to go outside and spend some time at the court.”

Henry shook his head in denial. “I am sorry, Anne, but you will do as the doctor prescribed; it is necessary for your safety and the safety of our child. You will stay bedridden even if I have to tie you to this bed.” He trailed off for a moment. His eyes surveyed her with a keen eye, on the lookout for any signs of illness. She was pale and a little weary, but he could see that her fear of being affected by the rebellion more overshadowed even her weakness.

“Fine,” Anne conceded. “I will do as you wish, husband.”

“I know that you are bored, but you have to be patient,” Henry said with a smile.

There was a wry smile on her face. “I am bored only when you are not with me.”

Henry laughed, a deep and rich sound of pure joy, which Anne didn’t hear from him for a long time.  And she laughed back, gently but still a little bitterly because she couldn’t get the thoughts about the rebellion out of her mind. The voice in the back of her head was telling her that danger was approaching fast to them and that one day it would amount to insanity. Anne and Henry exchanged some confessions and laughed, but there was still a touch of dark danger in the air around them.

At that instant, Henry’s expression was unguarded, and, in the depths of his eyes, she could see love for her which she hadn’t seen there since the birth of Elizabeth. A wild thrill of happiness and satisfaction surged through Anne’s heart at the thought that her husband still loved her even though he had already betrayed her multiple times after their marriage. Anne didn’t wish to share her husband with anyone else, but at least now she knew that not everything had been broken between them, though she suspected that his love was highly changeable. If the child she was carrying wasn’t a boy, she would lose Henry and his love and perhaps even her crown. But Anne couldn’t know that there she would lose the king much, much sooner.

Henry chuckled. “Then I will always be with you,” he murmured, smiling gently at her.

Anne grinned wickedly. “Of course, you will be with me because you belong to me!” she exclaimed half teasingly, half possessively. “We are a husband and a wife; a king and his queen!”

He sighed deeply and heavily, and his expression transformed into weary sadness. “Catherine has become a problem and a burden for England and for us,” he said harshly. “If only she had stepped aside and agreed to my demands, there would have been no rebellion!”

There was a moment's silence before she spoke. “I am not sure that there would have never been an uprising.” She paused, collecting her thoughts. “They want not only to have Catherine restored, but also to make England a Catholic country again, and this is their main demand.”

“They think that Catherine’s restoration would automatically mean the restoration of Catholicism in England.” He smirked darkly. “They are undereducated fools because I would never bow to the pope.”

Anne emitted a bitter sigh. “Some people think that I am not your wife and Queen.”.

Despite the fact that Catherine had been cast aside and Anne had been crowned, Anne Boleyn didn’t feel herself the undoubted and only Queen of England. As long as her old rival was still alive, she was sure that she would always be in danger. Henry wasn’t married to Anne and Elizabeth was illegitimate in the eyes of all Catholic kingdoms, and Henry was still a bigamist. For Protestant countries, Henry had technically been a bigamist at least for several months because his marriage to Catherine had been annulled only in several months after the secret wedding ceremony. After the official proclamation of the validity of her marriage to Henry, Anne had breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that she had a won. Nevertheless, she had been grievously mistaken, and the rebellion proved that.

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. “Anne, don’t be foolish,” he chimed her, his voice gentle. “I chose you to be my Queen and I fell in love with you.” He shifted on the bed closer to her. “I don’t care what the emperor and the King of France think about our marriage.”

Anne couldn’t believe what she had just heard. She thought back to the day when King François had repudiated the betrothal of his youngest son Charles, Duke d’Angoulême, and Elizabeth. Henry had been overwhelmed with anger, shouting that Elizabeth had been a bastard and that Anne had never been his wife. At that moment, Anne had looked at him with an expression of harshness and anger before her face recovered its blankness, and then she had forced a wry smile, throwing at him a snarky barb. Unfortunately, her attempt to pour oil on troubled waters had been a lame one: her conversation with Henry had ended with an outrageous scandal. But now she heard drastically different things.

She arched a brow. “Am I really your wife?” she asked. “You once told me something different.”

“Anne, don’t challenge me to a fight with you.”

“I want to know, Henry. I need to know.”

Holding one of her hands in his and putting another hand on her shoulder, Henry looked into her eyes. “I know what you mean, Anne. I was angry at that moment because François betrayed his promise to support our marriage. You should forget about my words.”

Her face was alight with hope. “Really?”

The king brushed a long strand of dark hair from her forehead. “Sweetheart, you are my wife and the Queen of England. Catherine has never been my wife – she is only Arthur’s widow.” He smiled with a mighty and enchanting smile that had always impressed her. “You are my wife,” he repeated, “and everyone who says otherwise commits an act of treason. I am the king and I will punish everyone who dares say that our marriage is null and void.”

The queen flashed a brilliant smile. “Thank you, Henry.”

He smiled. “Welcome, my love.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. The kiss was short as he quickly broke it; then he brought her fingertips to his lips, feeling that he no longer could struggle with the growing sense of power she had over him.

“Henry,” she whispered, her gaze locked with his.

Henry felt desire stirring in his loins, but he knew that they couldn’t have connubial activities when she was carrying his child and all the more when her pregnancy was at risk. “Anne, I want you so much.” His voice was husky, his heart pounding harder. “But I know that we cannot do this now.”

Anne shook her head, disappointed. “Yes, we cannot.”

“Later,” he murmured near her lips, “after the child is born.”

“We will have a long and happy life ahead together – you, our children, and I,” she whispered. She put her right hand on his chest, her heart beating faster.

The king smiled against her lips. “Yes, my own sweetheart,” he responded in a low, throaty voice. “We will have many beautiful and clever boys and girls, our golden Tudor Princes and Princesses. They will rule empires and kingdoms, bringing peace and prosperity to the lands they will rule.”

Looking into Henry’s sparkling eyes, Anne, nevertheless, was a little disappointed that he again spoke about sons. His obsession with having a healthy son annoyed and frightened her, but she decided against speaking harsh words because Henry was loving and caring now. Now he was behaving exactly like she had always wanted him to treat her and like he had always treated her during their long and romantic courtship. She didn’t know what would happen next and a part of her even doubted that they would survive the rebellion, and she didn’t want to think of tomorrow and their future, living only in this moment when there were only the two of them in the chamber and in the whole world.

Henry cupped Anne’s face and moved his hand behind her neck, looking into her eyes and admiring the love and passion which he could see there. Her eyes were as stormy with passion as a sea in winter months, her lips were quivering, and her whole frame was slightly shaking as she was exulting in the sensation of his strong, warm hands wrapped around her frame. Henry could see in Anne the same mysterious, dangerous, intelligent, and headstrong youth who had caught his eye on the day when she had appeared before him in the dazzling white gown of Perseverance and who had quickly enthralled him. God, how much he loved this bold, passionate, alluring, and one-of-the-kind woman!

“I love you so much, Henry.” The blue eyes stared at him, her mouth half open as she breathed in and out. She felt his lips, firm and tender, brushing against hers. “I want to be only with you.”

The flame flared up in Henry’s aquamarine eyes that darkened with passion. “And I want to be only with you, Anne.” She saw an overpowering love in his eyes, in his features, and in his attitude as his lips barely brushed hers. There was endless love upon his lips as he whispered against her mouth, “I love you and only you. I need you and only you.”

Anne felt her heart go forth to him. She loved him beyond measure, and she knew that he also loved her. “Ahhh,” his name escaped her lips, her fingers moving through his hair and down his neck.

The king crushed his lips on hers, claiming them fiercely. He kissed her slowly, possessively, deeply, his passion growing with every kiss. Anne threw herself into a sea of vehement passion with exclusive vigor, drowning there and luxuriating in the masculine splendor of his body. Henry’s kisses left Anne no doubt that she was the only woman in the world whom he wanted, and she responded to his kisses with more desperation. The kiss went on forever, their tongues battling in their mouths. They were kissing wish such immeasurable desperation that a dangerous throbbing awoke in their blood, as if it were their last moment on Earth; but maybe it was.

Anne focused on the taste of Henry, the firm and insistent, almost bruising touch of his lips against hers. His hands were everywhere at once, touching her heated body through her chemise. The heat in her core was like a quenchless flame, and she dreamt of being taken by him here and now, but his hand, which he put on her slightly protruding stomach, reminded her of her condition. But they could still kiss, and she wasn’t going to let him go without experiencing a moment of sweet madness in his arms. Anne wrapped her arms around his neck tighter, kissing him as if she could never get enough of him. Henry was rhythmically kissing her back not as if it were the best fun he had ever had in his life but as if he would never see her again, as if his entire life were in one single kiss.

As Henry finally broke the kiss, he slightly drew back, looking into her eyes. “Sweetheart, never forget that I love you and our child,” he said emphatically, his voice thick with the deepest emotion. He caressed her abdomen lovingly. “Whatever happens to us, never forget how much you mean to me and how much I love Elizabeth and our new child.”

Anne blinked her eyes in amazement. Her eyes stung, making the light there suddenly waver behind the glaze of tears, and the lightness in her chest evaporated. Unable to control her bitter, spine-chilling emotions, she shut her eyes and gave free reign to her feelings. Hot and burning tears trickled down her cheeks like silver waves. The curtains were undraped, and, from the corner of her eye, she could see the dark, stormy sky, frowning down at them, as if there were shimmering tears in Heaven as if nature were mourning the tragic end of Anne and Henry’s legendary and doomed love.

Henry brushed her tears away from her cheek, but they continued to flow out of her eyes freely. His arms encircled her back, pressing her slightly to his chest, each movement careful and measured. Wishing to alleviate her pain and unable to let go of her, he held her close as she lowered her chin and buried her head in his neck, his chin on the top of her head. Both breathed as if they had run a long distance – Anne from fading passion and crying and Henry only from their passion.

There was a grave silence in the chamber, the only sounds the steady rattle of torrential rain upon the window-panes and the cracking of the fire in the gigantic hearth.

“I am with you, sweetheart,” Henry said in the most soothing tones. “I will not leave you.”

The queen gazed up at him, bittersweet tears shining in her eyes. “Never leave me, Henry.” She traced her fingers over his jaw lien and his chin, then his mouth and his cheek. “Never ever.”

The king smiled, but the anxious glitter lit his eyes which she didn’t fail to notice. “I will never leave you as long as I live.” He kissed her slightly, his lips brushing hers. “You are not alone.”

Anne and Henry eagerly kissed again. Although their passion quickly reignited, there was much more sweetness and tenderness in their caresses and kisses than passion. The world slowed and ceased to exist, and nothing mattered at that moment, perhaps in their last few moments together for a long, long time or perhaps even in their lives. They clung to each other, savoring every touch of lips upon lips and skin upon skin wishing to pour all their love into their tender, lingering kisses that became anguished and almost tragic. For just some time, they were in each other’s arms, solid and warm, kissing, breathing, and holding warmth in their memories and in their hearts.

Henry broke the kiss and drew back. “I need to go,” he said, smiling sadly. “I will return to you later.”

Anne managed a smile. “Of course. I will be waiting.”

Giving her his most brilliant smile, the king got to his feet and took a step back from the bed, looking at his wife and thinking how beautiful she was even with her long raven hair streaming down her shoulders and back in a chaotic mess. Then he turned around and walked towards the exit from the bedchamber, not looking back. Although Henry smiled at Anne and spoke in the most cheerful tones to her, there was an increasing sense of anxiety behind his delightful façade. A feeling of great worry ripped through his heart as his thoughts returned to the rebellion in the north. Henry was shaking with fear, feeling a cold shiver progressing up his back at the thought that something could go wrong.

Anne watched Henry open the door and leave the bedroom. She caught one more glimpse of him as he paused at the doorway and smiled at her again; then he swung around and was gone. She again felt tears sting her eyes and closed them tight to shut off the flow, but tears still rolled down her cheeks, a feeling of abject misery overpowering her. Endless sadness filled her entire being as a feeling that her moments with her husband were probably numbered, and she felt pain in her heart, which began to constrict at first gently and slowly, like a lender squeeze of a lover, and then it collapsed entirely in one single moment. There was only a dreadful ache in Anne’s heart and soul.

At the same time, Henry entered the presence chamber to find Charles Brandon and George Boleyn there. They bowed to the king and stood, looking down for quite some time even after the king dismissed them from their bow. Each of the king’s guests feared to inform him about the last events in England and in London in particular. But Henry had already realized that something had gone terribly wrong looking at his subjects’ awkward, almost frightened faces.

A wild fit of nearly hysterical laughter took possession of the king as he seated himself in a high-back chair near the hearth. “Don’t waste time for formalities. Tell me what happened.”

Charles sighed. “Your Majesty, there is an outbreak of sweating sickness in England. Many people died in the north, which delayed the journey of the rebels to London,” he said, his eyes anxious, his bottom lip showing a tendency to tremble. “But the rebellion started in London. Countless people gathered near the Tower of London and magistrates. Now they are marching to Whitehall.”

Henry was surprised to learn the news about sweating sickness, but it wasn’t what worried him in the first place. “At least the rebels are no longer dangerous. Now we can easily defeat them with only my royal guard, and don’t tell me that they are afraid of them,” he said, with a brief friendly grin.

Deeply troubled, George sighed. “Your Majesty, I beg your pardon, but I have to disappoint you,” he began cautiously. “Although the rebels from the north were struck by sweating sickness on the way to London, many of them still managed to make their way to London in an attempt to escape from the malady. They joined the rebels from London, and now they are going to attack Whitehall.”

The king made a sharp intake of breath. “Can we defeat them? How many soldiers in my army died from sweating sickness? Do we have enough men for a battle in London?”

Charles lowered his gaze. “Your Majesty, we are facing grievous troubles.”

“What happened?” Henry’s voice was impatient.

George glanced helplessly at the king, but he knew that he had to speak. “More than half of our troops are dead or dying,” he informed in a grave voice.” He relapsed into silence to regain his composure, his gaze fixing on Henry. “My father and my uncle died from the sickness yesterday.” He was mourning for his father, but he didn’t feel as much pain as he had thought he would feel.

Henry’s face twisted into a look of shocked disbelief, his gaze cloudy. “No, it is impossible!”

“It is true, Your Majesty,” Charles assured his sovereign. “The Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Wilshire are dead, and so is half of the army we gathered, whereas thousands of the rebels are attacking us.”

The king blanched in shock. “Oh my God…”

“There is something else,” George continued, his mind reeling, for too many horrible events happened in the last days. There was one more thing that had changed fortunes of many people. “Catherine of Aragon, the Dowager Princess of Wales, died from sweating sickness several days ago. Under a heavy guard, Lady Mary was moved to the safe area, to the southeast of England.”

Henry was shocked beyond belief, feeling as if the floor were shaking beneath his feet. In the past weeks, he had blamed Catherine for many misfortunes that had befallen him and Anne, but he had never wished her dead. He sat in his chair looking into the emptiness, his mind numb with shock. He lowered his chin to his chest, feeling numbness overcome him. His throat turned dry, and he licked his lips. His heart was beating faster and faster as his brain was processing all the information he had just received. He couldn’t speak and let a long silence reign in the chamber.

The shrilling, angry voices of the people outside Whitehall Palace pulled the king out of thoughts. “What is going on?” he inquired, his eyes darting between Charles and George.

“The rebels… have come here,” George replied in a shaking voice.

Charles gave a nod. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

In a few moments, Henry was on his feet. There was no time for confusion because there was much to do. “We need to evacuate Anne and Elizabeth from the palace and the city. They must be moved into safety until this madness settles down,” he said decisively. He was trying vainly to brush aside the trembling emotion that lifted within him, but he was overwhelmed by the fear that assaulted him.

Charles and George dipped their heads in agreement. Without losing time, Henry stormed out of the chamber and into the corridor, heading to the queen’s suite. They didn’t have time even to pack their things and had to take with themselves only the most necessary things. As their walked through the labyrinth of corridors, the courtiers were already in a panic, but the king’s firm, steady voice commanded everyone to stay calm. Henry ordered Charles to deal with the horrified courtiers, and then he and George continued their way to Anne’s bedchamber. The tragedy was in the air.

§§§

It was dark and gloomy outside of Windsor Castle; wet snow was falling, and it would probably turn to freezing rain by midnight. Although the court usually spent Christmastide at Whitehall palace, this time, it seated at the Windsor Castle. Anne Boleyn, Queen Dowager of England, didn’t want to be even a minute in the place where the greatest tragedy in Christendom had happened less than a year ago – the murder of King Henry VIII in rebellion. Despair and grief were etched into the face of every English courtier since the day of Henry’s tragic death, and everyone writhed in the torments of hell from their incredibly dreadful and icy-cold memories about those dark days.

Anne Boleyn stood near the window, looking outside, into the winter garden. In the warm months, the garden had another view: it had paths bordered with flowerbeds, green mazes, turf seats, and was filled with a riot of bedding plants. But the view was magical as the garden was painted white with snow that hissed silently over the garden, blanketing the ground. But Anne didn’t care about the natural beauty: she was dead inside, and the darkness in her heart seemed intense and deadening. The wind howled over the roof of the palace like something wailing in grief, and Anne thought that it was her heart weeping for the loss of her husband.

Anne was motionless for at least an hour, her mind focused on the past – on the pictures of her happy days with Henry when they had been young and full of hopes for the bright future they would build together. But fate had cruelly made harsh realities of all their most fantastic dreams, offering Anne only the remnants of the past – visions which her imagination created and which were her only comfort. She was still struggling to accept the dreadful fact that the King of England had been murdered by his own subjects; it was too horrible and too unbelievable to accept that.

As the king had commanded him, George Boleyn had arranged Anne’s evacuation from Whitehall: they had left the palace through the old secret passage just before the rebels had stormed into the palace and had begun to destroy everything on their way to the royal chambers. Charles Brandon had tried to take Henry out of the palace in the disguise of a royal guardsman and with hooded heads, but in one of the corridors they had been separated and had lost each other. It had resulted in the greatest tragedy – the angry mob had torn apart King Henry and several other loyal counselors, and only Charles had miraculously managed to stay almost intact. Never, even in her most dreadful dreams, had she imagined that Henry would meet such a gruesome end.

In those dark days, complete madness had settled in the minds of staunch Catholics who had been horrified with the consequences and implications of the religious reforms. The news of Catherine’s death had fuelled the anger of the rebels who hadn’t believed that their Queen had died from sweating sickness, thinking that she had become the victim of either Henry or Anne. Rumors that Anne Boleyn had poisoned Catherine had started spreading over England and had reached London, and then someone had said that it had been King Henry, not Anne Boleyn, who had killed Catherine. Though those nasty rumors had had no foundation, the tumult had started, leading to the unexpected outbreak of the rebellion in London with the most grievous consequences for the nation.

Queen Anne had been taken out of London by George, assisted by Mark Smeaton, Thomas Wyatt, and several other loyal courtiers, all of them the supporters of the Boleyn faction. Anne had spent several months in the Dover Castle, one of the most imposing and largest castles in England with great defensive significance for the kingdom. Fortunately, sweating sickness almost hadn’t touched the county of Kent, so the threat of being infected had been minimal for Anne and her entourage. Thanks to divine providence, the queen hadn’t miscarried during the journey to Dover, and there had been no complications in her pregnancy thereafter.

The Duke of Suffolk had been dealing with the rebellion, gathering the rest of the royal troops and preparing to drive the traitors out of London and to the north, as far from the capital as possible. The surviving King’s troops had been slowly moving towards England from Cornwall. Many soldiers had died during the march to London, but the rebels had also been dying – each party had incurred losses. There had been no march of “pilgrims” with Robert Aske at the head of their army because Aske had died from sweating sickness, which had resulted in chaos and dispersion of the rebels.

Charles Brandon had failed to save Henry, but he had vowed to avenge the death of his sovereign and his close friend. Not intending to let the rebels and their families escape their due punishment, Charles had personally led the army on the main route which the pilgrims had taken to flee London. The king’s army had reached the remnants of Aske’s men, giving them a decisive battle and killing the traitors, including Lord Darcy and Robert Constable, in the final battle. The survivors had been executed at the order of Charles Brandon, who hadn’t spared even women and children, thinking that rebels and traitors were the mildest terms applied to all of them.

Charles had crushed the rebellion, but he hadn’t immediately gone to Dover to meet with Queen Anne, being frightened that he would be executed for his failure to save the king. An interval of some weeks between the king’s death and the end of the rebellion being allowed to elapse, Charles had finally mastered enough courage to travel to Dover. During private audience with the heavily pregnant Queen Dowager, he had informed her that he had personally overseen the organization of grand funeral for King Henry in St George's Chapel in Windsor Castle, in attendance of the surviving counselors and many loyal nobles; George hadn’t been there, always staying in Dover with his sister.

It had been the moment when the Duke of Suffolk had finally seen how deeply Anne had loved Henry. Her profound and intense grief had already set its mark upon her, and the woman who had spoken to Charles had been not Anne Boleyn of old times – her vivacious and energetic nature had been destroyed, replaced by the mask of regal coldness covering her pain. Yet, Anne had still struck Suffolk as an elegant and beautiful woman – in her tragedy Anne had become even more mysterious than she had ever been before. Although Anne had tried to stay calm for the sake of her child, he had seen deep, raw pain in the depths of her eyes, and it had left him no doubt about her feelings for the king.

During their audience, Charles had reported that the rebellion had been over. Displeasure with the religious reforms and the king’s marriage to Anne Boleyn had been forgotten, and the country had been in deep mourning for the tragically deceased monarch. Everybody had been shocked because nobody of pilgrims had expected that to happen to Henry. Henry had become the first King in history who had been killed by the angry mob, an iconic example of what can happen to a monarch trying to change the path of his kingdom’s development. The pope had said that King Henry had been punished for destroying the Catholic Church by God, appealing to staunch Catholics to organize a holy Crusade to England with the purpose of re-establishing the true faith there.

But the pope’s high-spirited speeches and appeals to continue the rebellion against Anne Boleyn and restore Mary Tudor on the throne of England had remained unanswered because the effect of Henry’s death on the common English people had been too strong. Even though Henry’s death could be interpreted as a symbolic and useful example for every King in Christendom, it didn’t dismiss the fact that his death had been outrageous and violent, putting the future of the kingdom at risk. As a result, everyone’s eye had focused on Queen Anne who had been carrying the king’s child. Even those who had disapproved of Henry’s marriage to Anne had showed sympathy to Anne, praying for her heath and for the successful delivery of her child.

Charles had stood on his knees, begging Anne to grant him forgiveness. Anne had assured him twice that she wouldn’t sign his death warrant before he had finally stood up, looking thoroughly shaken by the grief he had been experiencing. It had been the moment of Anne’s reconciliation with Suffolk when he had seen her as his true Queen for the first time since Henry had told him about his decision to marry her. Unexpectedly, Anne had offered Charles to be Lord Protector either for her unborn son or for her daughter Elizabeth if the baby hadn’t been a boy. She had needed the support of all the nobles, both reformers and Catholics, to rule the county; Charles had accepted her offer.

Anne Boleyn’s child had been the symbol of England’s future, and Mary Tudor had been forgotten even by Catholics. The queen had stayed in Dover in confinement, mourning the loss of her husband in solitude, with her brother always by her side and with Charles who had felt obliged to take care of Anne and Henry’s posthumous baby. When first frosts had hit England, Anne had given birth to a healthy baby boy whom she had named William as she and Henry had agreed beforehand. William Tudor had been proclaimed King William III of England, Ireland, and France.

Sweating sickness had killed many people, including her closest relatives and many of Henry’s ministers, but excluding Thomas Cromwell. After the suppression of rebellion and the birth of her son, the queen had worked off her pain on the people whom she had directly blamed for Henry’s death – Thomas Cromwell and his most trusted men. She had ordered to have Cromwell arrested and imprisoned in the Tower of London, accusing him of corruption, bribes, high treason, heresy, and failure to enforce the religious reforms in the way King Henry had planned to do that. Cromwell’s trial had been a formality as the verdict of his guilt had been known in advance: everyone had voted guilty, sentencing him to being hanged, drawn, and quartered.

Anne shook her head, contemplating the beautiful view and trying to distract herself from sad thoughts, but everything was useless as her mind drifted off to her grief again and again. She didn’t want to live in this world without Henry because she loved him too much, beyond measure and beyond reason. She knew that she would never forget him as her love was stronger than time and death, her hatred for Catholics – deeper than a bottomless abyss.

 “Henry,” Anne whispered to herself, her eyes fixed on the view of the snowy garden, “I will never stop loving you.” She squeezed her eyes shut to prevent tears from falling. “I will live without you even if I don’t want to. I will raise our children and will love them for us both. I will tell them how great their father was and how much he loved me and them.” She paused; she was quiet for a long, suspenseful moment, tears trembling on her eyelashes. “And when my time comes, I will join you in Heaven, my love.” She regretted that she couldn’t see the sky due to the continuing snowfall, imagining that he was watching her from Heaven.

The queen didn’t speak anymore. All was silence around; she stood, peering into the snowy, nearly smoky darkness, the visions of the past – of Henry and her together – resurfacing in her brain.

In a grave silence, Anne remembered the day of her meeting with Henry when they had been the king and his Perseverance; then the image of Henry and herself in Calais when they had conceived Elizabeth came to her mind. The images of her wedding with Henry in a small chapel and the pictures of Henry’s first meeting with Elizabeth were whirling in her mind; she regretted so much that Henry hadn’t lived long enough to see the birth of his son. Anne knew that she would live in the world of memories forever, and Henry’s image would never be shrouded in a mist in her memory.

Anne was taken out of her own world by the sound of the approaching footsteps outside of her bedchamber. The door of the outer chamber opened, and she heard Nan Saville’s voice greet George Boleyn. Then Nan walked in the queen’s bedchamber, informing Anne about her guest who was waiting outside. Anne nodded, feeling happy that her brother again came to her.

In the past months, Anne and George had become as close as they had never been before, even in childhood. Now George was her brother, her best friend, and her counselor, her ally in all her deals and campaigns, including the one against Catholicism in England and in favor of the religious reforms. Her brother was also a source of vitality and energy for her as her own strength had diffused as naturally as sunlight always does when darkness comes.

George entered and paused at the doorway, bowing to Anne. “Good evening, sister,” he began.

Anne gave him a smile. “Brother, I missed you.” Her voice was sweet, almost honeyed.

George walked towards her and paused in the middle of the chamber, hesitating whether he could approach her at that moment. Anne was not a woman who liked being touched in the moment of her vulnerability, which didn’t happen to her often, but Henry’s death changed everything. George knew that Anne needed him as much as she had never needed him before. Their father and uncle were dead, while Anne’s mother, Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, was sick and lived in the countryside with Lady Mary Stafford, who had been summoned back to the court but had quickly left for Hever Castle because of their mother’s illness. Anne and George had only each other, their lives combined not only by blood ties but also by kind of spiritual kinship that had formed between them in the months after Henry’s death.

Understanding the reasons for her brother’s hesitancy, Anne took the matter in her hands, flashing a ghost of her old bewitching smile which she reserved only for George could during those days. She approached George and pulled him into an affectionate embrace. As she pulled away and made a step back, she kissed him on the cheek and he kissed her too. Although George was smiling at her, inside his heart was breaking as he watched his sister’s features stamped with melancholy and signs of excessive nervousness, knowing that there was no real joy in her ghostly smile.

“God bless you, George!” Anne exclaimed in heartfelt tones, a barely noticeable note of despair leaking into her voice. “I am very glad you have come. I am unutterably glad!”

George understood that she had been alone for too long, thinking of Henry, but he didn’t want to focus their conversation on her husband. “Are you thrilled to see me, my dear sister?” he asked lightly.

“Thrilled?” she questioned, her eyebrow arched.

“Surely, you must be happy to see your most beloved brother!” He laughed, shrugging shoulders with an air of half-tolerant impatience. “If you are not happy, I will leave and go to my chambers. Then don’t expect that I will visit you at least during the next week.” He winked at her. “I may begin to think that you dislike my company as much as our enemies do dislike it!”

Anne smiled faintly. “You know perfectly well that only your company keeps me from falling into complete despair,” she said seriously. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

George wrapped his hand around her waist, a protective gesture of a loving brother. “Anne, I know that you are in mourning for the king, but you have to be strong for England, for your children, and for yourself,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Now, when the situation is still so uncertain, we have to stay calm and able to think with a cold mind. We have to be prepared for everything Catholics can do.”

Her head tilted to one side, Queen Anne was clenching her little teeth as anger coursed through her at the thought that the rebels had taken the life of her beloved husband. “I hate Catholics! I hate them all!” she cried out in spirited tones, but her voice was low and hissing. “They dared murder Henry, their lord and sovereign! They committed a mortal sin, and they are irredeemable!”

He sighed at the sight of her eyes blazing with hatred, and he suddenly felt sad. “Anne, I am sorry that I didn’t save not only you but also Henry. I am sorry that I am alive and he is dead.”

The queen no longer looked hateful. Warmth began glowing in her heart at the sight of her brother’s guilty face. “George, it is not your fault – it is only the fault of Robert Aske and the likes of him.” She sighed. “I told the Duke of Suffolk the same when he accused himself of his Henry’s death.”

“You don’t blame me, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Really?”

“Honestly,” Anne said genuinely.

“Thank you, sister.”

Anne glanced away, staring into the flames. “There is no need to thank me, George.”

“I see that you have become almost friends with Suffolk,” he noted, a touch of amazement in his voice.

“Indeed,” she agreed with a sigh. “Henry’s death helped His Grace see me in the different light – he understood that I am not as evil as he thought of me before. We also feel united in our grief because we both loved Henry. He is also Lord Protector of the realm in William’s minority, so we have to work together for the greater good – for the peaceful and prosperous future of England.”

“As much as I hate to say that, Suffolk is the most suitable person for the role of Lord Protector.”

Anne nodded. “Exactly.” With a graceful gesture of her hand, she invited him to take a seat near the hearth. “His Grace was Henry’s most loyal servant and close friend, and nobles respect him.” She seated herself in a whimsically carved, velvet-cushioned armchair.

He sat down, crossing his legs and folding his arms over his chest. “I would have been a worse choice. Nobody would have supported me.” Having the Boleyn regent could push the common people to another rebellion with an unpredictable outcome.

“We are in agreement.”

“The king would have approved of our choice.”

She made the sign of the cross over her chest, turning to look at him. “Poor Henry, may his soul rest in peace… I hope he is pleased that Suffolk and I have reconciled as he watches us from Heaven.”

George smiled. “I am sure the king would have been pleased.”

“Yes, he would.”

He leaned over the small table that stood between their armchairs; then he filled two jeweled goblets with red wine. “I have some alarming news for you,” he said as he handed her a goblet.

Anne merely raised her eyebrow, accustomed to bad news. “What is it, George?”

He sipped some wine. “The pope again appealed to all Christian Kings to organize a holy Crusade in England and overthrow the heretical child-King. He wants to restore the Plantagenets on the throne by putting Reginald Pole on the throne, together with Lady Mary Tudor.”

“Does he propose to marry Mary off to Reginald Pole?” she asked, sipping her wine.

“You have always had a keen and lofty intellect, sister.”

 “Now Henry is dead, which makes Mary his heir in the eyes of Catholic Europe in spite of the fact that Henry was murdered by staunch Catholics.” She brought her goblet to her lips and made a sip. “Catherine died, and I became the only Queen of England. My son was born after her death, which makes him legitimate, and even Catholics have nothing to say against that.” She released a heavy sigh. “It seems that even an outrageous fact of my husband’s death doesn’t prevent the pope from trying to stop our reforms.” She emptied the goblet and slammed it on the table. “The pope and all Catholics will always want me dead and consider my son a bastard!”

George refilled her goblet and handed it to her. “King François has already changed his opinion. I know that he can again change his decision to support us if it suits his purposes, but it is unlikely to happen soon.”

King François I of France had been the first Christian monarch who had sent his condolences to Anne and had officially acknowledged her as the Queen of England and Henry’s only true wife. He had also congratulated Anne with the birth of King William, officially declaring his support of William as the King of England. François even hadn’t mentioned Mary Tudor, as though she hadn’t existed, but Anne and George understood that the King of France only wanted to use a chance and form an Anglo-French alliance against Spain. George and Charles had already signed a treaty with the French ambassador, Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion, who had arrived in England as King François’ representative.

Anne made a sip of wine. “France needs an alliance with England, and François is too clever to miss his chance to make France more powerful and to grate on the emperor's nerves.”

“Right now we are relatively safe from Spain, but everything can change. We should be very careful.”

The queen leaned back in her chair, looking into her goblet. She imagined that red liquid was not wine but Mary’s blood. “Mary will always remain a threat,” she stated, her heart pounding harder in fear that her son William may be overthrown. “We have to do something.”

George nodded slowly. “I have an idea,” he began, drinking wine.

“What?” she asked impatiently, her eyes taking in the contents of her goblet.

“Master Cranmer says that more nobles have taken interest in the religious reforms and the new religious ideas, thinking that the Catholic Church has been so much corrupted and has become so evil that now God’s children are permitted to kill anointed Kings. More and more nobles begin to believe that the primacy of the pope is not derived from his role as the successor of Saint Peter.”

A dark shadow crossed Anne’s face as rage coursed through her at the thought about Catholics and especially the pope. “Willingness of many nobles to support the reforms is the only positive thing after the rebellion.” She regarded him with curiosity. “But there is something else on your mind, brother.” She sipped some wine and placed a half-empty goblet on the table.

George gave her an enigmatic smile. “Yes, sister.”

“Go on,” she prompted.

“English Catholics have been as quiet as a grave since the end of the rebellion. Now there are no Catholics who can defend and support Mary, and even Charles Brandon is not going to speak for her. And I have been thinking of something that can neutralize the threat she poses to us.”

“What do you mean?”

George smiled wryly. “We can force Mary to marry me.” He paused for a short moment, sighing deeply. He didn’t want to marry the bastardized Princess because he didn’t love her and because he had an affair with Mark Smeaton, but it seemed that this marriage could help them control Mary. “I am not fond of her stubborn and headstrong nature, but I can try to tame her.” He sighed again. “At least she will always be close to me, so my spies and I will always watch her.” 

She gave him a wan smile. “You are a resourceful man, George.” A frown marred her forehead. “But I doubt she will agree unless we threaten her with a charge of treason for her refusal to acknowledge the King of England as the Supreme Head of the Church of England and denounce the pope.”

“If she is not a fool, she will agree.”

“Knowing her proud and stubborn Spanish nature, I won’t be astonished if she refuses to marry you.”

He grinned. “Well, I will try to charm her. The charms of the Boleyns are irresistible!”

Anne laughed bitterly. Then her laugh faded away and a deep sigh came from her lungs, and she relapsed into silence, her expression miserable. “Once the Boleyn charms helped me catch the eye of the king and entice him enough to push him to divorce and even to the break from Rome in order to marry me,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on the red flame of the burning candle. “But these charms didn’t help me earn the people’s love, and now Henry is dead.”

George climbed to his feet and came to Anne; he knelt to her and took her hand in his. “Anne, you are running into danger of traumatizing yourself by living only in the past. All these memories only cause you more pain,” he said in an affirmative tone. “You need to move on and look into the future.”

Tears rushed to Anne’s eyes. “George, I do want to live,” she said genuinely. "To live and to move on! I want peace and warmth!” She flushed slightly. “But it is so difficult to live without Henry!”

He was greatly moved by Anne’s words, wishing to take away her pain, but he could only offer her a good brotherly advice. “I know that you loved the king, but he would have wanted you to live and find your path in the world after his death,” he assured her. “You have always been full of life, and I believe that a part of you still exists but is hidden.”

The queen shook her head, looking at her brother with tear-stained eyes, her long hair streaming down her shoulders and slightly wet with her tears. “Brother, you love life, and I hate it because he is not with me,” she responded. “But I know that I have to live for Elizabeth and William.”

George passed his hand over his hair. He understood her pain, but he didn’t want her to live the rest of her life in misery. “Promise me that you will try not to think of him every minute of your life.”

“I will try,” Anne said in a shaking voice through tears. “I will try,” she reiterated, as if she were unsure whether the words had really escaped her lips.

He opened his arms to her and she went into his embrace. “It will be alright, Annie,” he whispered into her ear, stroking her hair. “I promise that you will feel better soon.”

Anne and George froze in a tight embrace as she wept for the loss of her love, releasing all the tension accumulated in her in the past months. Tears – not timid tears of resignation, but desperate and bitter tears – flowed out of her eyes and down her cheeks, burning her skin. She was relieved that she had her brother to share her grief with him instead of living absolutely alone, in the deplorable darkness. Weeping in his embrace, Anne foresaw fresh tears and new troubles in the future, but deep down she knew that she would survive because she was Anne Boleyn – the only woman in the world who had managed not only to marry a powerful king but also to create the new England that would be ruled by her son, who would make Henry and her immensely proud of him.

To the astonishment of the Boleyn siblings and everyone at the court, Lady Mary Tudor would agree to marry George quite quickly, understanding what fate she would face in case of her refusal. Mary would never tell anyone about the changes that had happened to her in the days following King Henry’s death: the murder of her father by devout Catholics had destroyed the ideal world she had always lived in, shaking her belief in God. Having being taught since childhood that lives of anointed Kings and Queens were sacred, Mary would never fully recover from the shock of her father’s death and she would never believe in God as much as she had believed before the tragedy. Mary would never change her religion and would die a Catholic, but religious fanaticism would be foreign to her.

George Boleyn would be elevated to the Duke of Wiltshire and Ormond. Over time, Mary would fall in love with George who would eventually reciprocate her feelings. They would have three daughters and two sons, but one of their sons would not survive to adulthood. George would never finish his affair with Mark Smeaton before the wedding, and  nobody would ever learn that they had been lovers. In several years after Henry’s death, Mary would be legitimized and reinstated in the line of succession after Princess Elizabeth and King William. Mary’s relationship with her stepmother would always remain strained, but she would eventually stop hating Anne and would also overcome her resentment.

Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, would serve as Lord Protector of the realm until King William’s majority. Many important decisions would be made collectively by Privy Council consisting of Charles Brandon, George Boleyn, Antony Knivert, Henry Howard, Edward and Thomas Seymour, and several other noblemen. The common people would stop viewing Catholicism as the only true faith, and some of former staunch Catholic would join Protestant movement. Old English Catholic families would lose their power and influence at court, and the queen Dowager would permit a lavish hand-out of lands and honors to the new power group of the nobles loyal to the young Boleyn King. The Howards would be the only Catholic family having power and influence at the court.

Over time, Charles and George would uncover the old conspiracy against Queen Anne, learning that William Brereton and Imperial Ambassador Eustace Chapuys had attempted to assassinate her during her coronation. Both conspirators would be executed on the charge of high treason. Emperor Charles V would formally recognize Anne Boleyn as the Queen of England only because of Chapuys’ involvement into the regicide attempt on Anne’s life, which would cause a great scandal in Europe. Thomas Seymour and Edward Seymour would also lose their lives on the block for treason after trying to kidnap King William so that one of them could be Lord Protector instead of the Duke of Suffolk.

Over time, Charles Brandon would become the dear friend of the two Boleyn siblings, supporting their ideas in the religious reforms. It would be a long road before them, and the most difficult part of it would be the war with Spain that would follow with an attempt to overthrow King William III and make Reginald Pole the King of England and Mary Tudor as his Queen Consort in spite of Mary being married to Mary Tudor. Charles Brandon would once save George’s life from a Spanish assassin, which would strengthen the bonds of friendship between the two men. There would be dangerous times when Anne, George, and Charles would ride ahead of the English army along the coast of England to fight with the Spanish Armada, and then they would share the laurels of victories.

In all the years to come, Anne and George Boleyn would always be close, overcoming all the hardships together and bringing England into the new Golden Age. Anne would live for Elizabeth and William, giving them tales about the courage, valor, and wisdom of their celebrated father, even though some of these tales would make Henry a better King than he had actually been. Elizabeth would marry Prince Charles de Valois, Duke d’Angoulême, leaving England at the age of fifteen only to come back in a couple of years after Charles’ death; then she would marry Robert Dudley, to the shame and rage of her entire family. William would marry Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, uniting England and Scotland.

Anne Boleyn, the Queen Mother of England, would remain devoted to the memory of her husband until her dying day. At times, the tempting thought of a swift, fleeting love affair with one of her admirers would cross her mind, but she would quickly dismiss it, knowing that no other man would ever replace Henry in her heart. Anne’s love for Henry would always be like a warm, unquenchable, glowing ember in her heart, bringing her joy and peace every time when she would remember her husband’s handsome face. The love of Anne Boleyn and King Henry VIII would blossom and passion would flourish after their reunion in heaven, when Anne would think that _even a doomed love can become a celestial love if one of the lovers dies before love decays in a string of broken promises._


End file.
